


Code Switch

by PoppyAlexander



Series: Road to Home [11]
Category: Doctor Who (2005), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Arguing, Gen, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Polyamory, Postpartum Depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-08
Updated: 2014-02-08
Packaged: 2018-01-11 15:25:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1174690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoppyAlexander/pseuds/PoppyAlexander
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a crisis, caretaking roles are necessarily redefined.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Code Switch

Sherlock and John each sat in their usual chairs, the remains of a Chinese takeaway on the little table between them. Sherlock was telling John about the potential cases he had on, listing pros and cons of each, explaining how he didn’t think any of them was much of a challenge or bound to hold his interest for more than a few moments. People thought their petty problems in their small lives were so fascinating and important. . . John nodded and tried to hum in all the right places, but he soon found his eyelids growing heavy, and his head sank slowly toward his chest.

“John!”

“Sorry. You were saying.”

“Are you falling asleep, for god’s sake?” Sherlock’s face portrayed annoyance bordering on disgust.

“Sherlock,” John sighed. “I’m tired. The twins have only been home ten days, we never sleep. Last night I slept two hours—not in a row—and then I got about 45 minutes in this afternoon. I’m shattered.”

Sherlock pursed his lips, barely holding a frown at bay.

John looked at his watch. “Anyway, I should get back.”

“What, already?” Sherlock protested, “I thought you’d stay.”

John started to rise from his chair. “I said I’d come for dinner. I’m sorry; Donna needs me at hers.”

Sherlock swept his hand above the table. “This wasn’t even dinner.”

John huffed out a quick sigh. “Sherlock, I’m sorry if you feel neglected, you have every right to,” he said, “But this is one of those times when I have to focus my attention elsewhere.”

“I thought Donna was going to hire a governess. . .a nanny-thing.”

“It’s in process,” John said. “Maybe in a week or so. It takes time. And anyway,” he said impatiently—was Sherlock honestly picking an argument with him, now of all times? “I want to be there.”

“What for?”

John couldn’t help himself. He exploded at Sherlock, “Because they’re my children, Sherlock! I need to be there. Do you _really_ not understand that?”

“I need you for the cases. There’s one about the—“

“Sod the cases! You don’t need me for cases, and you know it. What’s really bothering you is that, for once, _I_ might need something other than to be slaving to your every whim.” John crossed to the door to the landing, and shut it. It was getting loud, and would probably only get louder. “You’re resentful, because I’m expressing a need that has nothing to do with taking your shirts to the laundry, or sucking your dick, or kissing your skinny arse!”

Sherlock crossed his arms, scoffed. “Don’t be so dramatic, John, it doesn’t suit you.”

“And that, there,” John protested, pointing a finger at Sherlock’s face. “I’ve about had my fill of being told I’m ridiculous, and dull, and boring, and stupid. You know, Sherlock, just because other people are invisible to you doesn’t mean you can let the bullets fly all ‘round here and expect no one to ever be hit.”

“It was better before,” Sherlock said, petulantly. “It was hard enough with just your wife; now these children.”

John could feel his face and neck turning red, his chest tighten with fury. God, he wanted to smash Sherlock in the face. “ _Before_?!” he bellowed. “You’re complaining that it was better _before_? You mean like before you faked your death and destroyed my life? And somehow magically _I’m_ the one to blame, now that it’s not like it was _before_?” John laughed bitterly, “That. . .” he shook his head. “That is bloody _audacious_ , even from you, my friend.”

“I’m not your _friend_.”

“No, you sure as hell aren’t,” John shouted sarcastically. “That’s the first thing you’ve said tonight that makes any sense.” He felt something awful oozing up, like bile, like acid, and he knew he should not say the words that were threatening to spill, some things can never be unsaid, but he was so angry at Sherlock’s pettiness and willful lack of understanding, his inability (more like unwillingness, John thought) to empathize or express compassion. . .

“Why did you come back,” he said flatly. “You ruined everything. You should never have come back.”

Sherlock sucked in his breath as if he’d been struck. He stared at John. This terrible thing John had just said hung there in the air, and John knew in his bones that it would never blow away; it would drift there between them forever. He’d really done it now.

“I came back,” Sherlock said at last--quietly, evenly--“for you.”

John pressed the knuckles of his fist against his mouth, too late. No reason not to continue, the damage was already done. “You came back for _you_ ,” he said, pointing at Sherlock’s chest. “Just like everything you do is for you. I’ve been an idiot to ever expect otherwise. There’s something wrong with you.”

Sherlock said, “I don’t know what you want me to do. Tell me what to do.” He made a gesture of surrender. “Just tell me what to do.”

John threw back his head, shouted at the ceiling, “I just want you to l—“ Caught himself. Looked back at Sherlock, said in a low, defeated tone, “Love me. I just want you to love me.” He shrugged. “But you can’t. You just can’t.” John frowned: it was sad, it was tragic, it was just how it was. “No,” he said abruptly, scolding himself. “It’s too hard.” He took a deep breath, blew it out through his nose. “It’s too hard.”

“It’s not. It’s easy,” Sherlock protested, and he reached out to catch John’s hand in both of his. “It’s easy to love you.”

John moaned, “You’re just saying words.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re saying words you think I want to hear. You’re trying to manipulate me like always. You’re pulling my strings.”

“No.”

John pulled his hand away. “This,” John said, and he pointed at the floor between them. “This is too hard. It’s too much for me. You’ve done it, Sherlock. Congratulations. You’ve broken me.”

“John.”

“I can’t do this right now. Maybe not anymore.”

“It is _not_ too hard,” Sherlock repeated. Then, loudly, “Just tell me what I need to do!”

“Make a bloody deduction!” John shouted back. “I have to go. I can’t be here anymore. I have to go.” He yanked open the door and stormed down the stairs. Out on the pavement, he shouted for a taxi. Sherlock did not follow him.

*

TXT from SH: There are some things I need from my room at Donna’s flat.

TXT from DrJW221B: I’m out; she’s there. She’ll let you in.

TXT from SH: I’m sorry.

TXT from DrJW221B: Please just don’t.

*

Sherlock’s slit-eyes blinked sideways. It was just boggling how he could walk around all the time carrying his brain in his hand that way. It was brave of him, to be that trusting. Donna would have to explain to him about the numbers, that his name was too long, but that he could go from a Five to a Three if would change his O’s to zeroes.

He was talking; his music changed to something slow, ominous, but Donna couldn’t make out the words.

“Your music’s a bit spooky today,” she told him. “You should change it.”

He was moving room to room. So tall, so tall.

“Watch your head,” she warned, “on the ceiling.”

He was talking to his brain in his hand, and this time Donna could understand him.

“Where are you? Come back to Donna’s flat right away.”

He walked away again, toward One and Two’s bedroom, and his music was loud and rumbly as he called back down the hallway to her, and it sounded like a question, but she didn’t know what he was asking because she didn’t understand his music like she understood her own, which was getting louder and mixing with his and sounding just awful. Donna put her fingers in her ears, and it drowned out the music enough so she heard him say in a demanding voice, “Donna! _Where_ are the children?”

She called back to him, “They turned off their music—they always do when they’re asleep. First One, then Two.”

He came back into the living room where she was sitting curled up on the sofa, and he said, “Show me where they’re sleeping.” His music was reedy, tremulous—all flutes and piccolos—but she could hear the words, too.

“Can’t you find them with your brain?” she asked. Sherlock left the room again. “Watch your head, Pet,” she warned again. “You’re so tall.” Just then she heard the front door opening and closing, and in the entryway, John’s music: a crash of cymbals.

“Donna?”

Her own Seven stabbed her heart, hearing her name. She’d have to fix it, to keep One and Two safe.

John again, words and music: “Was Sherlock here? I have three missed calls from him.”

John made his way to the living room and crossed to where Donna sat. He kissed the top of her head. “Hello, Missus. Babies asleep?”

“Yeh. They’re in the big room.”

“What, in our bedroom?”

Sherlock swung around the doorframe from the dining room. His eyes were huge and he was semi-breathless.

“Sherlock, what—“

“What time did you leave her this morning?” Sherlock demanded.

“About half-eight.” John looked at Donna; she seemed unconcerned, sipped from a mug of tea she picked up from the coffee table. He went on, “We got up with the twins about five and fed them; all three of them were asleep when I left. What’s going on? Why do you look like that?” John twigged: Sherlock was in a panic.

“Has she been acting strangely?”

Acid rose in John’s throat. “What? No.”

“Crying? Anxious? Forgetful?” Sherlock prompted.

“She gave birth three weeks ago,” John said, by way of explanation; didn’t all new mums act the way Sherlock described?

Donna put in, “Twenty-two days. That’s a Four.”

“What on earth are you talking about?” John asked her. He lay his hand across her forehead, checking for fever he somehow already knew was not there.

Sherlock said, “She’s been talking nonsense since I got here at 9:15.” He moved closer to Donna, tried to catch her eyes, and implored, “Donna, tell me where the children are.”

The room tilted beneath John’s feet.

“What do you mean tell you where—?” he couldn’t finish. Sherlock grasped John’s arm to steady him.

Donna offered, “I just told John they’re in the big room. They’re asleep.”

“The big room, our bedroom,” John clarified.

Sherlock shook his head gravely at John. “You know, Donna,” Sherlock said then, in a forced cheerful tone. “I don’t think I’ve seen that room. Can you show me?”

Donna smiled, “Oh, sure. You have to be quiet, though. The doctor said it’s best not to wake them when they’re sleeping.” She stood and motioned for Sherlock to follow her, as casual as if she were merely giving him a tour of the flat. Sherlock and John followed her to the hall bath; John’s stomach dropped to the floor as she lead them inside.

“Now don’t be shocked,” Donna gently warned them. “I know it seems impossible. I told the doctor it wasn’t possible, but he says it is.” She pulled open the frosted-glass door to the walk-in shower. “Ta-da! It’s bigger on the inside!” She looked delighted, gesturing grandly as if the shower stall were a much larger space. “Amazing, what?”

“Oh dear god,” John muttered. “Oh Jesus.”

He shoved past Sherlock to get to the twins. They lay on the floor of the shower, swaddled and still, not side by side, but vertically, with one baby’s feet just above the other baby’s head. John lay his fingertips on their lips, feeling for breath. The words gusted out of him in an expulsion of held breath.

“They’re fine. They’re fine.” He started to lift the nearest baby to him, which was Amy, into his arms. Donna bent down and grabbed his wrist.

“No, you have to do it in order,” she protested. “Wil first, he’s One. Wilfred seven Kairos six Watson, six again. Nineteen. One and nine, ten. One and zero, One.” The words tumbled out of Donna’s mouth at breakneck pace, and she wrung her hands, shifted on her feet, her eyebrows knitting with concern; she was manic. “Amy’s Two. Amelia six Evertrue eight Watson six again twenty. Two and zero two. That’s why he has to be above her, he’s One.”

Terror bolted through John. Something was very wrong with Donna; how had he not seen it before now? He quickly lifted Wil and passed him to Sherlock, who cradled him in one arm, then John tucked Amy safely against his chest.

“Missus, what are you doing there, with those numbers?”John asked quietly, though it was a struggle to keep his voice even.

“It’s the number of letters in each name,” Sherlock said, “She’s adding them up until she gets a single digit. A sort of numerology, but she’s attached her own significance.”

“The doctor said: the numbers,” Donna replied, as if it explained anything.

John felt he might be sick.

Sherlock quickly asked, “When did you see the doctor?”

“Just this morning, after John went. He was looking in the bedroom window.” She looked at them incredulously, as if they should have known. “He’s taller even than you, Sherlock.”

John’s voice rose with panic. “You saw the Doctor?” He turned to Sherlock, said urgently, “Oh, god, she’s remembering. The Doctor, a room bigger on the inside? She’s remembering him, Sherlock.”

“She’s not remembering. She’s having a psychotic break.”

“She’s _what_?”

“She’s hallucinating. Probably postnatal psychosis. Postnatal depression to the highest degree can turn into a psychotic episode. We have to get her to the hospital; she needs to be medicated.” He turned to Donna. “I’m going to call us a taxi, Donna, and take you to see the Doctor. He wants to see you right away.”

Donna’s lip quivered and she grabbed Sherlock’s arm to hold him in place. “I can’t leave them!” she protested. “If Two ever comes before One, something bad will happen to them, and to John and me. And you, too, Sherlock. I’m the only one who can do it. Don’t make me leave them. Please,” she was dissolving in tears, desperately clinging to Sherlock’s wrist. “I’m the only one who knows the numbers!”

“John knows,” Sherlock assured her. Clearly Donna believed the nonsense was something real; there was genuine fear in her eyes. “John can take care of them; he knows how important the numbers are.”

Donna’s face darkened. “But he’s a Seven, like me,” she protested, as if this were something awful. “The only reason I can do it is because I made my O’s into zeroes so I can be a Five, like you.”

John’s eyes were brimming with tears. Both babies were beginning to stir, disturbed by the noise. John gently patted Amy’s back.

Sherlock ducked his head so his eyes met Donna’s. “Well, John has two O’s, as well, so if he makes them zeroes, he’ll be a Five, too. So that seems all right, doesn’t it? Just for as long as it takes for you to see the doctor?”

Donna looked torn, partly persuaded but still afraid.

“We’ve met your doctor—John and I both have—and we understand about the numbers,” Sherlock told her. “I promise we won’t let anything bad happen.”

“You met him?” Donna looked as if she were trying to remember the meeting.

“A long time ago, yes. I think the doctor would agree that if John’s a Five like you and me, it’s all right to leave the twins in his care just for this little while. Don’t you think?”

Sherlock reached into his trousers pocket and passed John his phone. “Call a taxi,” he said quietly.

Donna’s expression shattered as she watched Sherlock hand over his phone. “Oh, no, Pet!” she sobbed, “Your lovely brain!” She sounded positively mournful. “Your lovely brain in your hand, you brave man. John, don’t drop it.”

John’s hand shook as he thumbed his way to Sherlock’s contacts and scrolled to the car service. Sherlock persuaded Donna out of the shower stall with one hand on her shoulder. “We’ll put Wil in his seat out in the living room,” he said, “Then John will bring Amy. See? Wil’s first.”

Donna looked a little relieved. Sherlock settled the baby into one of their little seats and did up his buckles. Wil made unhappy sounds.

“He’s hungry,” Donna said, and looked anguished.

“John will feed him first. You and are I going downstairs to the car,” Sherlock soothed, leading her toward the door of the flat. “We’re going to see the doctor.”

John caught up with them, passed Sherlock’s phone back to him.

“I’ll call you when we get there,” Sherlock said.

John was speechless. The babies were crying.

“I’ve got her,” Sherlock said.

*

“This is Donna Watson; she’s having a postnatal psychotic episode,” Sherlock told the young Asian man at the intake desk. “She is having sustained visual hallucinations, likely auditory ones as well. Obsessive thoughts, compulsive behavior, paranoiac anxiety. She needs to be medicated immediately.”

A nurse came around the desk and took Donna by the arm. “Are you her husband?” she demanded of Sherlock.

“I’m. . .”

“He’s my husband’s husband,” Donna said.

“I’m a family friend.”

Donna was quietly repeating, “husband’s husband, husband’s husband, husband’s husband,” as the nurse persuaded her into a wheelchair.

The nurse motioned to another woman dressed in scrubs and the two of them reached for thick straps on either side of the chair; they grasped Donna’s wrists.

“She doesn’t need restraints,” Sherlock protested. “She’s not violent.”

“Thank you, sir. If you’ll have a seat in chairs, we’ll call you when she’s ready for a visitor.”

“But—“

“Are you able to reach her husband? We’ll need him to sign consents.”

They wheeled Donna away through swinging doors. Sherlock slammed his fist down on the intake desk.

“Sir!” the Asian man scolded. “You can’t do that. I’ll have you removed.”

“Shut up,” Sherlock snapped, and stormed over to the waiting area. He sank into a chair and dialed John.

“Sherlock!” John sounded weary and out of breath, as if he had not exhaled since Sherlock and Donna left the flat.

“She’s going to be fine,” Sherlock intoned. “They won’t let me in.”

“I’ve called Mrs Hudson and Donna’s mum and sent cars for them. As soon as one of them gets here, I’ll come.”

Sherlock sighed, rubbed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and fingers. “You’re all right?” he asked.

“That was bloody terrifying.” John paused. “If you hadn’t been here. . .What might she have done?”

“Nothing happened. Don’t think about it.”

“You hear stories. Read it in the papers.” John cleared a lump out of his throat. “I should have noticed something was wrong.”

Sherlock said, “You’re tired, it’s a difficult time. You’ve never done this before.”

“Still.”

Sherlock heard shouting from behind the swinging doors and looked up, but there was nothing to see. He strode across and looked through the small windows at an empty hallway.

“They won’t let me in,” Sherlock repeated. “I’m just a family friend.”

“How did you know? That something was wrong with her?” John asked. “How did you know to even look for it?”

Sherlock said, “I read a lot, while you two were expecting. To be ready.”

John huffed out a laugh that turned into a sob. He gathered himself and Sherlock could envision him shaking his head as he said, “You are the damnedest creature, Sherlock Holmes. You’re a puzzle.”

“Shut up.” But Sherlock smiled.

“Sherlock,” John said quietly. “I’m sorry for what I said last night. I’m. . . I’m out of my mind right now.”

“It’s not important.”

“Of course it is.”

“No, you were right. It’s hard.” Sherlock’s voice was barely above a whisper. His eyes were closed. “This is hard. And I’m selfish. I’m cruel. But I swear I don’t mean to be.”

“Sherlock. . .”

“It’s not _too_ hard, though.” A frown. “John.” A pause. “I _can_ , you know. I do.”

“I know.” Sherlock could hear Donna’s door buzzer go. “All right, someone’s here to look after the twins; I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

“Right. See you soon.”

“Sherlock?”

“Mm?”

“I love you, too," John said quietly. "And it’s not too hard.”

 

-END-


End file.
